Tim Connor Hits Trouble Page 18

  He looked thoughtfully at his colleague: even as Henry relaxed there was nothing about him that suggested much capacity for compromise: the jutting chin, the belligerent brow, and a nose that looked as though it had battled its way through more than a few fist fights. The notion that Henry might lower his profile and stay more or less sober on campus was probably a non-starter. Tim broached matters tentatively.

  ‘Some of us thought you got a rough deal in Swankie’s job rotation exercise.’

  ‘And others didn’t. Steir’s been out to get me for years.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. But I think Swankie is your real enemy. I guess you’re pretty pissed off.’

  ‘You could say that,’ a shadow passed across Henry’s face. ‘It’s not just those two. The whole place is changing and in my view for the worse. I mean, I got an email from Swankie the other day asking me, well telling me, ordering me if you like, to go and see the Director of Learning and Teaching. I know there is such an entity but I’m fucked if I’m going to see him, or her - whoever it is. For God’s sake, ‘The Director of Learning and Teaching’! I thought academics directed learning and teaching. Not that ‘direct’ is the right word. I like to think I teach students, communicate with them. And despite what those shits think I still have plenty to say.’

  As the beer went down Henry talked on. As usual his target of attack was ‘the system’ but Tim appreciated that a lot of emotional unloading was taking place.

  ‘This isn’t over yet. I’m not going to let my working life end in a humiliating shambles. They’re trying to buy me off with a lump sum but I’ve no intention of making life easy for them. I might get a lawyer on the case to rough them up a bit. I’ve already talked to the union rep; she mentioned something about constructive dismissal. Or maybe I’ll find some way of nailing them myself. I might enjoy that more.’

  Abandoning any attempt to calm Henry down Tim reminded him of the likely outcome of any battle with management.

  ‘Henry if you fight them they will probably suspend you or even sack you. They have the power and you don’t.’

  Henry was in no mood for realism.

  ‘I’ll think of something, believe me. I’ve nothing to lose.’

  ‘Are you sure about that? Might they not mess around with your pension or your leaving package? I mean, I don’t know, it’s not the kind of thing I’ve looked into.’

  ‘Tim I’m not going to be pushed out. If I go it will be under my own steam. Anyway, I don’t think they can do much. My pension’s opted out. I’m willing to suffer a bit if I can shaft them as well.’

  ‘You mean Swankie and Rachel Steir?’

  ‘Swankie mainly. She cosies up to him, feeds him the crap but he’s the one that takes the decisions.’

  ‘Henry, will a war of attrition do you any good? Why don’t you just keep out of their way? Skip departmental meetings if you want. I’ll feed them excuses for you.’

  Henry gave Tim a stubborn look.

  ‘I don’t need excuses. The department was doing fine before Steir and her mate came along. Who do they think they are: Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid? They’ve fucked up and now they’re trying to mess me up, us up.’

  Tim suppressed an impulse to jump to Erica’s defence. It was best to keep the conversation on Henry’s problems. Besides he didn’t know the details of departmental politics of recent years. The conversation went round in circles for a few more minutes. Tim was about to suggest that they call a halt when he noticed that Henry’s expression had changed. For once he looked vulnerable, struggling for words.

  ‘Tim, look, I know I’m not the best advert for the things I believe in. When you get older you can see your mistakes more clearly, the opportunities you missed, the hurt you caused for other people. But you can’t start again. You’re stuck with what you’ve done. There’s an analogy that I’ve come across that captures what I’m trying to say.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘So, compare the journey through life to climbing a mountain, Every now and then you stop and look back. At every point you see more of the landscape or, in the analogy, more of the pattern of your life. The closer you are to the end of the journey the more you see and understand about what’s gone before, especially your own part in it. It’s all there in sharper perspective but set hard and immutable. You can’t change anything. It’s too late. There’s no denying what’s been done and there’s no going back. Failed relationships of years ago that perhaps you gave up on too easily, can be seen for what they are, failures, perhaps selfish failures; culpable lack of effort in work, shrugged off at the time, clearly appears now as laziness or weakness. It’s the same with failure to get really involved in the political causes you believe in.’

  ‘Henry, you’re being too hard on yourself.’

  Henry brushed aside Tim’s attempt to halt his lapse into melancholic nostalgia.

  ‘No, I’m not, I wish I was. I know exactly what I’ve done and not done, exactly where I am in my life. It’s not pretty and I’m sorry for a lot of it: my penchant for fine words and feeble actions. But Tim, I want to say this to you. My inadequacies don’t mean that my values and the causes I believe in are wrong. I believe that corrupt elites run this country and higher education has gone along with it. Academics have done almost nothing to stop it: a modern trahison des clercs. Ok… there have been a few protests and angry books and articles a-plenty but no serious action. We’re a pusillanimous lot. And I admit I’ve been worse than most. There’s not much I can do now. But I won’t creep away and hide under a stone. If all I can achieve is a gesture then so be it.’

  He shook his fist in rhythm with his concluding words, refocusing on Tim as he did so.

  ‘Tim, I’m sorry. I’m banging on about myself again. I’m not a complete egocentric degenerate, you know. Well, not just,’ he attempted a self-disparagingly smile. ‘I should be helping you to settle in, not dumping on you. I know you have your share of personal problems too. Maybe more than I do. And you’ve walked into a bit of a maelstrom here – don’t let it suck you in. But you’ve got youth on your side, a life still to build. It’s harder when you’re closer to the other end of things.’

  He paused, resisting the temptation to return to his own problems. ‘Look I’m sorry I’ve been more hindrance than help to you. You seem to be coping well but you deserved better than this. If there’s any way I can help you I will.’

  Tim was moved by the older man’s unexpected apologia. But he felt awkward and uncertain how to respond. He seldom got emotionally close to other men and rarely seemed to want to. His air of independence and slight aloofness meant that it was not often that people confided their problems to him and he was even less likely to talk about his own. That was the way it had been for as long as he could remember.

  ‘Henry, I enjoy your company, I wish I could be more use to you. And thanks for your offer of support to me,’ he added, as he nearly always did to offers of help, ‘but I’m fine.’

  ‘Well that’s ok then,’ Henry gave a wry half-questioning smile.

  Tim took this as a cue to check his watch.

  ‘Henry. You’re welcome to come back to my place for dinner? I can offer you a choice of ready meals or we can pick up a take-away as we go. I’m sure Annette won’t miss you too much for one evening. Why don’t you call her now to let her know where you are and I’ll order a taxi?’

  ‘No need. I doubt if she’d miss me if I disappeared for a week.’ His voice dropped to a worried mumble as he added, ‘she’s been making threats to get me out recently.’

  His words caught Tim by surprise. He had not realised that Henry’s marital problems were so serious. The man’s life was falling apart on every front. But now was not the time to play relationship counsellor. He gave Henry a sympathetic glance and called for a taxi.

  Chapter 15

  The Fight

  Back at Tim’s place a lighter mood returned. They washed down a meal of microwaved beef lasagne and instant chips with bottled be
er. They continued drinking once the meal was over, still chilling after their heroics on the golf course.

  ‘Henry, what type of music do you like?’

  ‘Most: jazz, folk, rock and roll, especially progressive rock, even some of the better rap stuff. What have you got?’

  ‘A pretty wide selection. How about something we can sing to? I’ve heard you can turn out the odd tune yourself.’

  Tim played tracks from his collection of CDs and LPs most of them selected for them to sing along to. Well tanked up, they sang raucously and at maximum volume.

  Just as they were launching into an attempt to accompany Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah there was a thunderous knock on the front door.

  ‘There’s someone at the door,’ said Henry unnecessarily.

  ‘Huh, I don’t know who that can be, or maybe I do.’ Tim got to his feet and walked slightly unsteadily to the door, humming as he went.

  Opening the door he found himself staring into the hostile face of Darren Naylor. Tim was about to ask what he wanted when Naylor jabbed a stubby finger into his belly.

  ‘Shut that fucking noise, you’re keeping my kids awake.’

  Tim stumbled backwards a couple of paces, briefly disoriented. As his head cleared he could see Naylor’s point.

  ‘Ok… ok, ask politely and we’ll cut the noise for you.’

  Naylor was not about to take a lesson in etiquette. He stepped inside the doorway shaking his fist under Tim’s nose.

  Tim pushed him back into the driveway, spinning him round. They squared up, sizing each other up.

  In a flash, months of pent-up tension detonated.

  Naylor swung a right cross that connected hard with Tim’s left ear.

  Tim staggered backwards but the blow had a sobering effect. As Naylor came after him he took a more controlled step back giving himself space to launch a long right hook in the direction of Naylor’s nose. The impact was almost as satisfying as good sex. Naylor’s nose spread like a squashed doughnut, blood and snot squirting across his face.

  ‘Ah… shit… you fuckin’ pillock. I’ll get ye for that.’

  Naylor wiped his face with the back of his hand. He raised his fists again ready to carry the fight back to Tim.

  By now it had dawned on Tim that a serious fight with his neighbour could have all manner of nasty consequences. He decided to try to cool things down though he wasn’t betting on Naylor’s cooperation.

  ‘Listen, we’ve landed a decent shot each, let’s leave it at that. We’re gonna have to deal with things by talking. Ok, I’ll cut the noise down, just get off my property.’

  No chance.

  ‘Piss off, you lanky fairy. Ye’re not gonna talk yer fuckin’ way out of this one.’

  Naylor had taken a bunch of keys from his trouser pocket. He gripped the key ring in his right fist fitting the keys between his fingers the sharper ends sticking outwards. A hard hit could take an eye out. It was soon clear he had another target in mind.

  ‘How would you like to pick your teeth up with broken fingers?’

  ‘Not a lot thanks, put those keys away. You’re at risk of making a serious assault.’

  Nothing infuriated Naylor more than, as he saw it, his neighbour’s condescending arrogance.

  ‘Who do you think you are you over-educated twat? You afraid to fight all of a sudden? No way, I have n’t started on you yet.’

  Naylor shaped up to attack again. As he did so Tim noticed Henry slip quietly out of the door. Before Naylor could launch himself Henry fixed him in a half-Nelson just managing to clasp his hands behind Naylor’s thick neck.

  ‘Shit! What the fuck?’

  Naylor bent forward, shaking his arms and torso in an attempt to dislodge Henry. Swinging in mid-air Henry hung on, enabling Tim to step in and twist the keys from Naylor’s clenched fist.

  Cursing, Naylor turned to face away from the house and started to batter Henry against its pebbled wall. After thudding into the wall several times Henry was forced to release his hold. Suddenly free of his load Naylor reeled backwards cracking his head against the wall. Pebble and plaster exploded onto the driveway but Naylor’s head appeared undamaged. The only effect was to further enrage him. Bellowing in anger he hurled himself at Tim who quickly sidestepped as his neighbour charged several yards past.

  What the outcome might have been had the fight continued was not put to the test. Out of the blue came the blaring of a police car’s siren - getting louder by the second. Naylor looked the most alarmed of the embattled trio. Without even a parting insult he swiftly exited through a hole in the fence. He was about to disappear through his front door when the police car screeched to a halt, veering giddily onto the pavement between the two houses. Three large male police officers tumbled out. Two made for Tim and Henry while the other retrieved the vehemently protesting Naylor.

  Tim decided that it might defuse matters if he invited everybody inside ‘to explain.’ The senior policeman’s response was that he himself intended to provide all the explanation required. Were they aware that he had the option of charging them with a number of offences and was inclined to do so considering the distress they had caused their neighbours; two of whom had called the local police station? At this point Tim and Henry adopted studiously penitent expressions. Naylor attempted to interrupt the officer’s homily but was promptly told to ‘shut up’ unless he ‘fancied a trip down to the station.’ In the end the officer settled ‘on this occasion’ for giving them an informal caution as to their future conduct. The police had more important things to do than chase around after supposedly mature men behaving like juveniles. Didn’t they also have more important things to do? Tim and Henry agreed that indeed they did and insisted that the current incident was entirely unique in otherwise scrupulously busy and law-abiding lives. Cornered, even Naylor nodded glum assent. The police officer concluded with a warning that in the case of any future incident there would be charges.

  Nothing quite like it did occur again. Whatever it was that cowed Naylor he never threatened another physical confrontation. But his campaign to force Tim to sell up and leave carried on. Tim continued to experience nasty incidents that he was sure were Naylor’s work but he could never prove it. The most dangerous was when one of his car-tyres burst causing a horrific skid. Fortunately there was no damage done to either the car or himself. Changing the tyre he extracted a shard of glass from it. Returning home he found a couple of more shards of what looked like the same kind of glass on the exit to his driveway. As he turned round after picking them up he noticed Naylor’s van draw up. He found himself staring straight into Naylor’s eyes. There was a cold hatred in them that carried a clearer message than any spoken word. Naylor would like to see him maimed or killed.

  As far as the fence was concerned Tim woke up one morning about a week after the fight to find it flattened between the two driveways. He left it there. He had the feeling it might be his neighbour’s last, self-defining act in their conflict. He was right. In the end it was Naylor who moved on. Tim cleared the old fence and built a new one fully six and a half feet high, entirely at his own cost. You have to pay to get out of going through all these things twice.

  Chapter 16

  Henry Receives an Invitation

  Henry had finished his morning’s teaching and was pondering what to do next. His head was leaden and inspiration failed to spark. He was reluctant to go home where the atmosphere was now terminal. Annette was close to completing her chapter for Rachel Steir’s edited collection of what he referred to in a moment of drunken provocation as ‘old women telling young women what to do.’ Hardened through years of emotional attrition, Annette gave as good as and often better than she got. She made it clear that his ‘aimless presence’ was an unwelcome distraction to her serious work. Twisting the knife she suggested that ‘instead of loafing about’ he might be better employed attempting to write something himself. His offer to provide a dissenting chapter for the women’s book was met with contemptuous silence
. Still, he didn’t regret his taunt - it gave him belief that he had some fight left in him. But the days when Annette was in awe of his intellect were long gone. In desperation he began to reply to her clever jibes with choice selections from his extensive macho and toilet-based vocabulary. His coarser insults seemed to annoy her more than his attempted intellectual put-downs and he got an extra kick out of using politically incorrect language. Relief was temporary. To himself he admitted that he was hopelessly out of control and that many of Annette’s comments were ‘a fair cop.’

  Occasionally he drifted from depression and despair into wishful thinking. He would pull himself together - eventually. Maybe he would get round to some writing. But for now the prospect of long hours running into endless days and months in front of a computer screen unsettled him. What was blocking him? Perhaps it was just a temporary loss of confidence. Or maybe, he conceded, it was the alcohol. He would cut down. What he didn’t allow himself to think was that the cold, unyielding screen might bring him face to face with his own failure.

  He left his office and wandered, vaguely pensive, towards the quieter part of the university grounds, still undecided about what to do next

  He hated the way his image of himself had slowly begun to change. Like many sensation-loving romantics he had consigned the inconvenient matter of growing older and then old to the far recesses of his mind. We were young so long it seemed we would never grow old… ‘Not now we’re not,’ he acknowledged. He had never quite believed in ‘forever young’ but the alternative was too depressing to contemplate. And too disturbing. Of course the ‘never grow old’ culture of his youth had come up with one solution to the problem of getting older: youthful death. Hope I die before I get old… For a few of the brighter lights ‘hope’ was not enough and one way or another they gave death a helping hand. Henry had always felt that in courting death the likes of Jim Morrison and Janice Joplin were really seeking to cheat it: self-destruction as the ultimate form of transcendence. Or perhaps dazzled in a haze of mass adulation they imagined they were on the brink of deification: any day now, any way now, I shall be released. More prosaically others like the American protest singers Phil Ochs and Tim Buckley made calculated decisions to kill themselves: idealists, they simply couldn’t stand the sad, bad ways of the world.